Lenobia's Vow
by PearlGirl017
Summary: The first chapter is the summary, as usual. As I am very throe with writing my summary's. This is my Third story and it is on the Romance side. Be warned tho, it has a bit of French in it.
1. Summary

"Elle est morte!" She is dead.  
Lenobia's world exploded with the sound of a scream and three small words. She would never forget the feeling of dread that engulfed her.

Before becoming Zoey's favourite professor and the House of Night's powerful horse mistress, Lenobia was just a normal 16-year-old girl - but with enough problems to last a lifetime.

In 1788, Lenobia's mother placed her on a ship bound for New Orleans. An evil bishop, skilled in Dark magic, is making the same journey. His appetite for beautiful young women forces Lenobia to remain hidden, but she secretly visits the ship's stables, where a handsome young man and his horses capture her attention.

Can they make it to the New World before the bishop discovers her true identity and a powerful evil breaks loose? And will Lenobia follow her heart, even if it puts lives at risk.


	2. Chapter 1: How Lenobia Became Cecile

_"Elle est morte!"_

Lenobia's world exploded with the sound of a scream and three little words.

"She is dead?" Jeanne, the scullery maid working beside her, paused in her kneading of the plump, fragrant bread dough.

"Oui, may the Holy Mother have mercy on Cecil's soul."

Lenobia looked up to see her mother standing in the arched doorway to the kitchen. Her pretty face was un-usually pale and her hand clutched the worn rosary beads that were always looped around her neck.

Lenobia shook her head in disbelief. "But just days ago she was laughing and singing. I heard her. I saw her!"

"She was beautiful, but never strong, that poor girl," Jeanne said, shaking her head sadly. "Always so pale. Half of the chateau caught that some ague, my sister and brother included. They recovered easily."

"Death, he strikes quickly and terribly," Lenobia's mother said. "Lord or servant, he eventually comes for each of us."

Forever after, the yeasty scent of fresh bread would remind Lenobia of death and sicken her stomach.

Jeanne shuddered and crossed-shaped spot in the middle of her forehead. "May the Mother protest us."

Automatically, Lenobia genuflected, though her eyes never left her mother's face.

"Come with me, Lenobia. I need your help more than Jeanne does."

Lenobia would never forget the feeling of dread that engulfed her with her mother's words.

"But there will be guests-mourners-we must have bread," Lenobia stammered. Her mother's gray eyes, so like her own, turned to storm clouds. "That was not a request," she said, switching from French to English.

"When your _mere_ speaks in the barbaric English, you know she must be obeyed." Jeanne shrugged her round shoulders and got back to her dough kneading.

Lenobia wiped her hands on a linen towel and forced herself to hurry to her mother. Elizabeth Whitehall nodded at her daughter and then turned, motioning for Lenobia to follow her.

They made their way through the wide, graceful halls of the Chateau de Navarre. There were nobles who had more money than Baron of Bouillon-he was not one of King Louis's confidants or courtiers, but he did have a family that could be traced back hundreds of years, and a country estate that was the envy of many lords who were richer, though not as well-bred.

Today the Chateau's halls were hushed and the curved, mullioned windows that usually allowed plentiful sunlight to spill against the clean marble floors were already being draped with heavy black velvet by a legion of silent servant girls. Lenobia thought that the house itself seemed muffled with grief and shock.

Then Lenobia realized they were hurrying away from the central part of the manor and toward one of the rear exits that would empty out near the stables.

 _"Mama,_ _ou_ _allons_ _-nous?"_

"In English! You know I loathe the sound of French," her mother snapped.

Lenobia suppressed a sigh of irritation and switched to her mother's birth language. "Where are we going?"

Her mother glanced around them, and then grabbed her daughter's hand and, in a low, tight voice she said. "You must trust me and do exactly as I say."

"Of-of course I trust you, mother," Lenobia said, frightened by the wild look in her mother's eyes.

Elizabeth's expression softened and she touched her daughter's cheek. "You are a good girl. You always have been. Your circumstances are my fault, my sin alone."

Lenobia began to shake her head. "No, it wasn't your sin! The Baron takes whomever he wants as a mistress. You were too beautiful not to catch his eye. That was not your fault."

Elizabeth smiled, which allowed some of her past loveliness to surface. "Ah, but I was not beautiful enough to keep his eye, and because I was only the daughter of an English farmer, the Baron cast me aside, though I suppose I must eternally be grateful he found a place for me, and for you, in his household."

Lenobia felt the old bitterness burn within her. "He took you from England-stole you from your family. I am his daughter. He should find a place for me, and for my mother."

"You are his bastard daughter," Elizabeth corrected her. Only one of many-though by far the prettiest. As pretty even as his legitimate daughter, the poor, dead Cecile."

Lenobia looked away from her mother. It was an uncomfortable truth that she and her half-sister did look very much alike, enough alike to caused rumours and whispers as both girls began to bloom into young women. Over the past two years Lenobia had learned it was best to avoid her sister and the rest of the Baron's family, who all seemed to detest the very sight of her. She had found it easier to escape to the stables-somewhere Cecile, the Baroness, and her three younger brothers rarely went. The thought crossed her mind that her life would either be much easier now her half-sister who looked so much like her-but who would not acknowledge her-was dead, or the dark looks and the sharp words from the Baroness and her boys would get even worse.

I am sorry Cecile is dead," Lenobia said aloud, trying to reason through the jumble of her thoughts.

"I would not wish ill on the child, but if she was fated to die, I am grateful that it happened now, at this moment." Elizabeth took her daughter's chin and forced her to meet her gaze. "Cecile's death will mean life for you."

"Life, for me? But I already have a life."

"Yes, the life of a bastard servant in a household that despises the fact that their lord scatters his seed aimlessly and then enjoys flaunting the fruits of his transgressions as if that proves his manhood over and over again. That is not the life I wish for my only child."

"But, I do not under-"

"Come, and you will understand," her mother interrupted, taking her hand and pulling her along the hallway until they came to a small room near one of the rear doors of the Chateau. Elizabeth opened the door and led Lenobia into the poorly lit room. She moved purposefully to a large basket like those used to carry the linens to wash. There was, indeed, a sheet draped over the top of it.

Lenobia stared as her mother began lifting the gown and expensive undergarments from the basket, shaking them out, smoothing their wrinkles, brushing off the delicate velvet slippers. She glanced at her daughter. "You must hurry. If we are to be successful, we have very little time."

"Mother, I-?"

"You are going to put on these clothes, and with them you will also put on the identity of another. Today you will become Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne, the legitimate daughter of the Baron and Baroness of Bouillon."

Lenobia wondered if she had gone utterly mad. "Mother, everyone knows Cecile is dead."

"No, my child. Everyone at the Chateau de Navarre knows she is dead. No one on the coach that will be here within the hour to transport Cecile to the port of Le Havre, or on the ship awaiting her there, knows she is dead. Nor will them, because Cecile is going to meet that coach and take that ship to the New World, the new husband, and the new life that awaits her in New Orleans as a legitimate daughter of a French Baron."

"I cannot!"

Her mother dropped the gown and grasped both of her daughter's hands, squeezing them so hard Lenobia would have flinched had she not been so shocked. "You must! Do you know what awaits you here? You are almost sixteen. You have been fully a woman for two summers. You hide in the stables-you hide in the kitchen-but you cannot hide forever. I saw how the Marquis looked at you last month and then again last week." Her mother shook her head, and Lenobia was shocked to realize she was fighting back tears as she continued to speak. "You and I have not because my duties have overtired me."

"I wondered . . . but I did not want to know!" Lenobia pressed her trembling lips together, afraid of what else she might say.

"You must face the truth."

Lenobia drew a deep breath, yet still shudder of fear moved through her body. "The Bishop of Evreux-I could almost fell the heat of his eyes when he stared at me."

"I have heard he does much, much more than stare at young girls," her mother said. "There is something unholy about that man-something more than the sin of his corporeal desires. Lenobia, daughter, I cannot protect you from him or any other man because the Baron will not protect you. Become someone else and escape the life sentence that it means to be a bastard is your only answer."

Lenobia gripped her mother's hands as if they were a lifeline and stared into the eyes so much like her own. _My mother is right. I know she is right._ "I have to be brave enough to do this." Lenobia spoke her thought aloud.

"You are brave enough to do this. You have the blood of courageous Englishmen pounding through your veins. Remember that, and it will strengthen you."

"I will remember."

"Very well, then." Her mother nodded resolutely. "Take those servant's rags off and we will dress you anew." She squeezed her daughter's hand before releasing them and turned back to the pile of shimmering cloth.

When Lenobia's trembling hands faltered, her mother's took over, swiftly divesting her of the simple but familiar clothing. Elizabeth didn't even leave Lenobia her homespun shift, and for a dizzying moment it seemed she was even shedding her old skin for new. She didn't pause until her daughter was totally naked. Then, in complete silence, Elizabeth dressed Lenobia carefully, layer upon layer: shift, pockets, panniers, under petticoat, over petticoat, stays, stomacher and then finally the lovely silk robe _a la polonaise_. It was only after she had helped her with the slippers, fussed with her hair, and then swirled a fur-trimmed, hooded pelisse around her shoulders that she finally stepped back, curtseyed deeply, and said, _"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Cecile, votre carrosse attend."_

"Mama, no! This plan-I understand why you must send me away, but how can you bear it?" Lenobia pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to silence the sob that was building up.

Elizabeth Whitehall simply rose, took her daughter's shoulders, and said, "I can bear it because of the great love I bear for you." Slowly, she turned Lenobia so that she could see her reflection in the large, cracked mirror that rested on the floor behind them, waiting to be replaced.

'Look, child."

Lenobia gasped and reached toward the reflection, too startled to do anything except stare.

"Except for your eyes and the lightness of your hair, you are the image of her. Know it, believe it and become her."

Lenobia's gaze went from the mirror to her mother. "No! I cannot be her. God rest her soul, but Cecile was not a kind girl. Mother, you know she cursed me every time she saw me, even though we share the same blood. Please, Mama, do not make me do this. Do not make me become her."

Elizabeth touched her daughter's cheek. "My, sweet, strong girl. You could never, never become like Cecile, and I would never ask it of you. Take only her name. Inside, in here." Her touch went from Lenobia's face to the spot on her breast on top of which her heart beat tremulously. "In here you will always be Lenobia Whitehall. Know that, believe that, and in doing so you will become more than her."

Lenobia swallowed the dryness in her throat and the terrible pounding of her heart. "I hear you, I believe you, I will take her name but not become like her."

"Good, it is settled then." Her mother reached behind the laundry basket and lifted a small, box-shaped case. "Here, take this, the rest of her trunks were sent to the port days ago."

 _"La_ _casquette_ _de Cecile."_ Lenobia took it hesitantly.

"Do not use the vulgar French word for it. They make it sound like a casket. It is a travel case that is all. It is meant as the beginning of a new life-not the ending of an old one."

"It has her jewellery in it. I heard Nicola and Anne talking." The other servants had gossiped incessantly about how the Baron had ignored Cecile for sixteen years, but now that she was being sent away he lavished jewellery and attention on her as the Baroness wept about her only daughter being sent away. "Why did the Baron agree to send Cecile to the New World?"

Her mother snorted in disdain. "His latest mistress, that opera singer, has almost bankrupted him. The King is paying handsomely for titled, virtuous daughters willing to marry the nobility of New Orleans."

"The Baron sold his daughter?"

"He did. His excess his purchased you a new life. Now, let us go so that you might claim it." Her mother cracked the door and peered into the hallway. She turned back to Lenobia. "No one is about. Put your hood over your hair, and follow me , quickly but quietly.

"But the coach will be stopped by the liverymen. The drivers will be told about Cecile."

"Yes, if the coach was allowed to enter the estate they would be told. That is way we shall meet it outside the grand gates. You will board it there."

There was no time to argue with her mother. It was almost mid-morning, and there should have been servants, tradesman and visitors coming and going from the busy estate. But today there was a pull over everything. Even the sun's face was veiled as the mist and low, murky clouds swirled over the Chateau.

She was certain they would be stopped, would be found out, but sooner than it seemed possible the huge Iron Gate loomed out of the mist. Her mother opened a smaller walkway exit, and they hurried into the road.

"You will tell the coach driver that there is an ague at the Chateau, so the baron sent you out so that no one would be contaminated. Remember, you are the daughter of nobility, expect to be obeyed."

"Yes, mother."

"Good, you have always seemed older than your years, and now I understand why. You cannot be a child any longer, my beautiful, brave daughter. You must become a woman."

"But, mama, I-," Lenobia began, but her mother's words silenced her.

"Listen to me and know that I am telling you the truth. I believe in you, I believe in you strength, Lenobia. I also believe in your goodness." Her mother paused and then slowly took the old rosary beads from around her neck and lifted them, placing them over her daughter's head, and tucking them under the lace stomacher so that they were pressed against her skin, invisible to everyone. "Take these, and remember that I believe in you, and know that even though we must be apart, I will always be part of you."

It was only then that the true realization hit Lenobia. She would never see her mother again.

"No," her voice sounded strange, too high, too fast, and she was having trouble catching her breath. "Mama! You must come with me!"

Elizabeth Whitehall took her daughter in her arms. "I cannot, the _fille du roi_ are not allowed servants. There is little room on the ship." She hugged Lenobia tightly, speaking quickly as, in the distance, the sound of a coach echoed through the mist. "I know that I have been hard on you, but that was only because you had to grow brave and strong. I have always loved you, Lenobia. You are the best, the finest thing in my life. I will think of you and miss you every single day, for as long as I live.'

"No, Mama," Lenobia sobbed. "I cannot say good-bye to you, I cannot do this."

"You will do this for me, you will live the life I could not give you. Be brave, my beautiful child, and remember who you are."

"How do I remember who I am if I am pretending to be someone else?" Lenobia cried. Elizabeth stepped back and gently wiped the wetness from her daughter's cheeks. "You will remember here." Once more, her mother pressed the palm of her hand against Lenobia's chest over her heart. "You shall stay true to me, and to yourself, here. In your heart you will always know, always remember who are. As in mine, I will always know, always remember you."

Then the coach burst onto the road beside them, causing mother and daughter to stumble back out of the way.

"Whoa!" The driver of the coach pulled his team of horses up and shouted at Lenobia and her mother. "What are you doing there, women? Do you want to be killed?"

"You will not speak to the Mademoiselle Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne in such a voice!" her mother yelled at the coachman. His gaze skittered to Lenobia, who brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, lifted her chin, and glared at the driver.

"Mademoiselle d'Auvergne? But why are you out here?"

"There is a sickness at the Chateau. My father, the Baron, has kept me separate from it so that I am not contagious." Lenobia's hand went to her chest and pressed against the lacy fabric there so that her mother's rosary beads bit into her skin, grounding her, giving her strength. But still she could not help reaching out and clinging on her mother's hand for security.

"Are you daft, man? Do you not she mademoiselle has waited here for you for far too long already? Help her inside the coach and out of this horrid dampness before she does fall ill," her mother snapped at the servant.

The driver scrambled down immediately, opening the door of the coach and offering his hand.

Lenobia felt as if all the air had been knocked from her body. She looked wildly at her mother.

Tears were washing down her mother's face, but she simply curtseyed deeply and said, _"Bon voyage_ to you, child."

Lenobia ignored the gaping coachman and pulled her mother up, hugging her so tightly the rosary beads dug painfully into her skin. "Tell my mother I love her, I will remember her and miss her every day of my life," she said in a shaky voice.

"My prayer, to the Holy Mother of us all, is that she let this sin be attributed to me. Let this curse be on my head, not yours," Elizabeth whispered against her daughter's cheek.

Then she broke Lenobia's embrace, curtseyed again, and turned away, walking with no hesitation back the way they'd come.

"Mademoiselle d'Auvergne?" Lenobia looked at the coachman. "Shall I take the _casquette_ for you?"

"No," she said woodenly, surprised that her vice still worked. "I'll keep my _casquette_ with me." He gave her an odd look but held out his hand for her. She saw her hand being placed in his, and her legs carried her up and into the coach. He bowed briefly and then clambered back to his position as driver. As the coach lurched forward, Lenobia turned to look back at the gates of the Chateau de Navarre and saw her mother collapsed to the ground, weeping with both hands covering her mouth to stifle her wails of grief.

Hand pressed against the expensive glass of the carriage window, Lenobia sobbed, watching her mother and her world fade into the mist with her memory.


	3. Chapter 2: Scene 1, Father Charles

With a swirl of skirts and throaty, low laughter, Laetitia disappeared around a marble wall carved with of saints, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the remnants of unsatisfied desire in her wake.

Charles cursed, " _Ah,_ _ventrebleu_ _!"_ and adjusted his velvet robes.

"Father?" the acolyte repeated, calling down the inner hallway that ran behind the chancel of the cathedral. "Did you hear me? It is the Archbishop! He is here and asking for you."

"I heard you!" Father Charles glared at the boy. As the priest approached him, he lifted his hand and made a shooing motion. Charles noted that the child flinched like a skittish colt, which made the priest smile.

Charles's smile was not a pleasant thing to behold, and the boy backed quickly down the steps that led up to the chancel, putting some distance between the two of them.

"Where is de Juigne?" Charles asked.

"Not far from here, just inside the main entrance to the cathedral, Father."

"I trust he has not been waiting long?"

"Not too long, Father, but you were, uh-" The boy broke off, his face filled with consternation.

"I was deep in prayer, and you did not wish to disturb me," Charles finished for him, staring hard at the boy.

"Y-yes, Father."

The boy was unable to look away from him. He'd begun to sweat, and his face had turned an alarming shade of pink. Charles couldn't tell if the child was going to cry or explode. Either would have amused the priest.

"Ah, but we have no time for amusement," he mused aloud, breaking his gaze with the boy and walking quickly past him. "We have an unexpected guest." Enjoying the fact that the boy flattened himself against the screening wall so that his priestly robes didn't so much as brush his skin, Charles felt his mood lighten. He shouldn't allow small things to distress him. He would simply call for Laetitia as soon as he could free himself of the Archbishop, and they would resume where they'd left off-which would put her willing and bent before him.

Charles was thinking of Laetitia's shapely bare bottom when he greeted the old priest. "It is a great pleasure to see you, Father Antoine. I am honoured to welcome you to the Cathedrale Notre Dame d'Evreux," Charles de Beaumont, Bishop of E'vreux, lied smoothly.

 _"_ _Merci_ _beaucoup,_ Father Charles.' The archbishop of Paris, Antoine le Clerc de Juigne, kissed him chastely on one cheek and then the other.

Charles thought the old fool's lips felt dry and dead.

"To what do my cathedral and I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Your cathedral, Father? Surely it is more accurate to say that this is God's house."

Charles's anger began to build. Automatically, his long fingers began to stroke the huge ruby cross that always hung from a thick chain around his throat. The flames of the lit votive candles at the feet of the nearby statue of the beheaded Saint Denis fluttered spasmodically.

'To say this is my cathedral is simply a term of endearment and not one of possession," Charles said. "Shall we retire to my offices to share wine and break bread?"

"Indeed, my journey was long, and though in February I should be thankful it is rain and not snow falling from the gray skies, the damp weather is tiring."

"Have some wine and a decent meal brought immediately to my offices." Charles motioned impatiently to one of the nearby acolytes, who jumped nervously before scurrying away to do his bidding. When Charles's gaze returned to the older priest, he saw that de Juigne was studying the retreating acolyte with an expression that was his first warning that something was amiss with this unannounced visit. "Come, Antoine, you do look weary. My offices are warm and welcoming. You will be comfortable there." Charles led the old priest away from the nave, across the cathedral, through the pleasant little garden, and opulent offices that adjoined his spacious private chambers. All the while the archbishop gazed around them, silent and contemplative.

It wasn't until they were finally settled in front of Charles's marble fireplace, a goblet of excellent red wine in his hand and a sumptuous repast placed before him, that de Juigne deigned to speak.

"The climate of the world is changing, Father Charles."

Charles raised his brows and wondered if the old man was as daft as he appeared. He'd travelled all the way from Paris to talk of the weather? "Indeed, it seems this winter is warmer and wetter than any in my memory," Charles said, wishing this useless conversation to be over soon.

Antoine le Clerc de Juigne's blue eyes, which had appeared watery and unfocused just seconds before, sharpened. His gaze skewered Charles. "Idiot! Why would I be speaking of the weather? It is the climate of the people that concerns me."

"Ah, of course." For the moment, Charles was too surprised be the sharpness in the old man's voice even to feel anger. "Then people."

"There is talk of a revolution."

"There is always talk of a revolution," Charles said, choosing a succulent piece of pork to go with the smooth goat cheese he'd slices for his bread.

"It is more than simple talk," said the old priest.

"Perhaps," Charles said through a full mouth.

"The world changes around us. We draw near a new century, though I will pass into Grace before it arrives and younger men, men like you, will be left to lead the church through the tumult that approaches."

Charles fervently wished the old priest had expired before he'd made this visit, but he hid his feelings, chewed, and nodded sagely, saying only, "I will pray that I am worthy of such a weighty responsibility."

"I am pleased that you are in agreement about the need to take responsibility for your actions," said de Juigne.

Charles narrowed his eyes. "My actions? We were speaking of the people and the change within them."

"Yes, and that is why your actions have come to the attention of His Holiness."

Charles's mouth suddenly went dry and he had to gulp wine to swallow. He tried to speak, but de Juigne continued, not allowing him to talk.

"In times of upheaval, especially as the tide of popular attitude sways toward bourgeois beliefs, it has become increasingly important that the church does not drown in the wake of change." The priest paused to sip delicately at his wine.

"Forgive me, Father, I am at a loss to understand you."

"Oh, I doubt that very much. You could not have believed your behaviour would be ignored forever. You weaken the church, and that cannot be ignored."

"My behaviour? Weaken the church?" Charles was too astounded to be truly angry. He swept a well-manicured hand around them. "Does my church appear weakened to you? I am loved by my parishioners. They show their devotion by tithing with the generosity that fills this table."

"You are feared by your parishioners. They fill your table and your coffers because they are more afraid of the fire of your rage than the burning of their empty stomachs."

Charles's own stomach lurched. _How could the old bastard know? And if he knows, does that mean the Pope does as well?_ Charles forced himself to remain calm. He even managed a dry chuckle. "Absurd! If is=t is fires they fear, it is brought on by the weight of their own sins and the possibility of eternal damnation. So they give generously to me to alleviate those fears, and I duly absolve them."

The Archbishop continued as if Charles had never spoken. "You should have kept to the whores. No one notices what happens to them. Isabelle Varlot was the daughter of a marquis."

Charles's stomach continued to churn. "That girl was the victim of a horrible accident. She passed too close to a torch. A spark lit her dress afire. She burned before anyone could save her."

"She burned after spurning your advances."

"That is ridiculous! I did not-"

"You should also have kept your cruelty in check," the Archbishop interrupted. "Too many of the novices come from noble families. There has been talk."

"Talk!" Charles sputtered.

"Yes, talk supported by the scars of burns. Jean du Bellay returned to his father's barony minus the robs of a priest and instead carrying scars that will disfigure him for the rest of his life."

"It is a shame his faith was not as great as his clumsiness. He almost burned my stables to the ground. It has naught to do with me that after an injury of his own causing he renounced his charge to our priesthood and retreated home to the wealth of his family."

"Jean tells a very different story. He says he confronted you about your cruel treatment of his fellow novices and your anger was so great that you set him, and the stables around him, afire."

Charles felt the rage begin to burn within him, and as he spoke, the flames of the candles in their ornate silver holders that sat at either end of the dining table flickered wildly, growing brighter with each word. "You will not come into my church and make accusations against me."

The old priest's eyes widened as he stared at the growing flames. "It is true what they are saying about you. I did not believe it until now." But instead of retreating or reacting in fear, as Charles had come to expect, de Juigne reached into his robes and pulled out a folded parchment, holding it before him like a warrior's shield.

Charles stroked the ruby cross that sat hot and heavy on his chest. He had actually begun to move his other hand-to flick his fingers toward the nearest candle flame, which writhed brighter and brighter, as if beckoning his touch-but the thick leaden seal on the parchment sent ice through his veins.

"A papal bull!" Charles felt his breath leave him with his words, as if the seal had, indeed, been a shield that had been hurled against his body.

"Yes, His Holiness sent me. His Holiness knows I am here and, as you may read for yourself, if I or any in my party meet with an unfortunate fiery accident, his mercy will turn to retribution and his vengeance against you will be swift. Had you not been so distracted with defiling the chancel you would have noticed my escort was not made up of priests? The Pope sent his own personal guard with me.

With hands that trembled, Charles took the bull and broke the seal. As he read, the Archbishop's voice filled the chamber around him as if narrating the Younger priest's doom.

"You have been watched closely for almost one ear. Reports have been made to His Holiness, who has come to the decision that your predilection for fire may not be the manifestation of demonic influence, as many of us believe. His Holiness is willing to give you an opportunity to use your unusual affinity in service of the church by protecting those who are most vulnerable than in New France."

Charles came to the end of the bull and looked up at the Archbishop. "The Pope is sending me to New Orleans."

"He is."

"I will not go. I will not leave my cathedral."

"That is your decision to make, Father Charles. But know that if you choose not to obey, His Holiness has commanded that you be seized by his guards, excommunicated, found guilty of sorcery, and then we shall all see if your love of fire is as great when you are bound to a stake and set ablaze yourself."

"Then I have no choice at all."

The Archbishop shrugged and then stood. "It is more of a choice than I advised you be given."

"When do I leave?"

"You must leave here immediately. It is a two-day carriage ride to Le Havre. In three days the _Minerva_ sets sail. His Holiness charges that your protection of the Catholic Church begins the moment you step upon the soil of the New World, where you will take up the seat of Bishop of the Cathedral Saint Louis." Antoine's smile was disdainful "You will not find New Orleans as generous as Evreux, but you may find that the parishioners in the New World are more forgiving of your, shall we say, eccentricities." The Archbishop began to shuffle toward the door, but he paused and looked back at Charles. "What are you? Tell me truly and I will say nothing to His Holiness."

"I am a humble servant of the church. Anything else has been exaggerated by the jealousy and superstition of others."

The Archbishop shook his head and said no more before leaving the room. As the door closed, Charles fisted both of his hands and smashed them into the table, causing the cutlery and plates to tremble and the flames of the candles to writhe and spill wax down their sides as if they wept with pain.


	4. Chapter 2: Scene 2, The Minerva

For the two-day journey from the Chateau de Navarre to the port of Le Havre, mist and rain wrapped Lenobia's carriage in a veil of gray that was so thick and Impenetrable, it seemed to Lenobia that she had been carried from the world she know and the mother she loved to unending purgatory. She spoke to no one during the day. The coach paused briefly only for her to attend to the most basic of bodily functions, and then they continued until dark. Each of the two nights, the driver stopped at lovely roadside inns where the madams of the establishments would take charge of Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne, clucking about her being so young and unchaperoned and, almost beyond her hearing, gossip with the serving girls about how _atroce_ and _effrayant_ it must be to be on her way to marry a faceless stranger in another world.

"Terrible . . . frightening . . ." Lenobia would repeat. Then she'd hold her mother's rosary beads and pray, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women . . ." over and over again, just as her mother had for as long as she could remember, until the sounds of the servants' whispering were drowned out by the memory of her mother's voice.

On the third morning they arrived in the port city of Le Havre and, for a fleeting moment, the rain, stopped, and the mist, parted. The scent of fish and the sea permeated everything. When the driver finally stopped and Lenobia stepped from the carriage down to the dock, a brisk, cool breeze chased away the last of the clouds and the sun beamed as if in welcome, flashing on a lavishly painted frigate that bobbed restlessly at anchor nearby in the bay.

Lenobia stared at the ship in awe. All across the top of the hull was a band of blue on which intricate gold filigree was painted that reminded her of flowers and ivy. She could see orange, black and yellow decorating other parts of the hull, as well as the deck, and facing her was the figurehead of a goddess, arms outstretched, gown flowing fiercely in carved and captured wind. She was helmeted as if for war. Lenobia had no idea why, but the sight of the goddess had her breath catching and her heart fluttering.

 _"Mademoiselle d'Auvergne? Mademoiselle? Excusez-moi, êtes-vous Cécile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne?''_

The flapping of the nun's brown habit caught Lenobia's attention before her words were truly understandable. _Am I Cecile?_ With a jolt Lenobia realized that the Sister had been calling to her from across the dock, and in getting no response, the nun had broken from a group of richly dressed young women and approached her, concern clear in her expression as well as in her voice.

"It-it is beautiful!" Lenobia blurted the first thought that fully formed in her mind.

The nun smiled. "It is, indeed, and if you are Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne you will be pleased to know that it is more than just beautiful. It is the means by which you will embark upon an entirely new life."

Lenobia drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to her breast so that she could feel the pressure of her mother's rosary beads, and said, "Yes, I am Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne."

"Oh, I am so glad! I am Sister Marie Madeleine Hachard, and you are the last of the Mademoiselles. Now that you are here we can board." The nun's brown eyes were kind. "Is it not a lovely omen that you brought the sun with your arrival?"

"I hope so, Sister Marie Madeleine," Lenobia said, and then had to walk quickly to catch up with the nun as she hurried, with a futter of her robes, back to the waiting, staring girls.

"It is Mademoiselle d'Auvergne, and we are now all arrived." The nun motioned imperiously to several dockhands that were standing about doing nothing more than sneaking curious looks at the group of girls. _"Allons-y!_ Take us to the _Minerva,_ and be careful and quick about it. Commodore Cornwallis is eager to sail with the tide." As the men scrambled to do her bidding and get a rowboat ready to transport them to the ship, the nun turned back to the girls. With a sweep of her hand she said, "Mademoiselles, let us step into the future!"

Lenobia joined the group, quickly scanning the girl's faces, holding her breath and hoping that none of them would be familiar to her. She breathed a long, shaky sigh of relief when all she recognized was the similarity of their expressions. Even so, she purposefully remained on the outskirts of the women, focusing her gaze and her attention on the ship and the rowboat that would take them to it.

 _"Bonjour, Cecile."_ A girl who looked as if she could not be older than thirteen spoke to Lenobia with a soft, shy voice. _"Je m'appelle Simonette La Vigne."_

 _"Bonjour,"_ Lenobia said, trying to smile.

The girl moved closer to her. "Are you very, very afraid?"

Lenobia studied her. She was certainly beautiful, with long, dark hair curling over her shoulders and a smooth, guileless face the colour of new cream, her complexion marred only by two bright pink spots on her cheeks. She was terrified, Lenobia realized.

Lenobia glanced at the rest of the girls in the group, this time really seeing them. They were all attractive, well dressed, and about her age. They were all wide eyed and trembling. A few of them were even weeping softly. One of the little blondes was shaking her head over and over clutching a diamond encrusted crucifix that hung from her neck on a thick gold chain. _They were all afraid,_ Lenobia thought.

She smiled at Simonette, and this time actually managed more than a grimace. "No, I am not afraid," Lenobia heard herself say in a voice that sounded much stronger than she felt. "I think the ship is beautiful."

"B-but I c-cannot swim!" stammered the trembling little blonde.

 _Swim! I am worried about being discovered, never seeing my mother again, and facing life in a strange, foreign land. How could she be worried about swimming?_ The laugh that escaped Lenobia's lips drew the attention of all the girls, as well as Sister Marie Madeleine.

"Do you laugh at me, mademoiselle?" the girl asked Lenobia.

Lenobia cleared her throat and said, "No, of course not. I was only thinking how funny we would look trying to swim to the New World. We would be like floating flowers." She laughed again, this time less hysterically. "But is it not better that we have this magnificent ship to swim us there, instead?"

"What is all this talk about swimming?" said Sister Marie Madeleine. "None of us need know how to swim. Mademoiselle Cecile was right to laugh at such a thought." The nun waked to the edge of the dock, where the sailors were waiting impatiently for the girls to begin boarding. "Now, come along. We need to get settled into our quarters so the _Minerva_ can get under way." Without so much as a backward glance, Sister Marie Madeleine took the hand of the nearest sailor and stepped awkwardly but enthusiastically into the bobbing rowboat. She had taken a seat and was rearranging her voluminous brown habit before she noticed none of the other girls had followed her.

Lenobia noticed that several of the Mademoiselles had taken steps backward, and tears seemed to be spreading like a pestilence throughout the whole group.

 _This isn't as terrifying as leaving my mother,_ Lenobia told herself firmly. _Nor is it as frightening as being the bastard daughter of an uncaring baron._ Without hesitation, Lenobia strode to the edge of the dock. She held out her hand, as if she were accustomed to servants automatically being there to help her, and before she had time to rethink her boldness, she was in the little boat taking a seat on the bench beside Sister Marie Madeleine. The nun reached over and squeezed her hand briefly but firmly.

"That was well done," said the Sister.

Lenobia lifted her chin and met Simonette's gaze. "Come on, little flower! You have nothing to fear."

 _"Oui!"_ Simonette said, picking up her skirts and hurrying forward to take the sailor's offered hand. "If you can do it, I can do it."

With that it broke the dam of resistance. Soon all of the girls were beginning to board into the boat. Tears turned to smiles as the confidence of the group built and their terror evaporated, leaving relieved sighs and even some hesitant laughter.

Lenobia wasn't sure when her own smile changed from something inauthentic that she'd forced to honest pleasure, but as the last girl clambered aboard did she realize that the tightness in her chest had eased, as if the ache in her heart might actually become bearable.

The sailors had rowed them almost all the way to the ship, and Simonette had been chattering about how even though she was almost sixteen, she had never before seen the ocean and perhaps she was just a little bit excited. Then a gilded carriage pulled up and a tall, purple-robed man exited. He walked to the edge of the dock and glared from the girls to the waiting ship. Everything about him-from his stance to the dark look on his face-appeared angry, aggressive, and familiar. Sickeningly familiar . . .

Lenobia was staring at him with a growing feeling of disbelief and dismay. _No, please, let it not be him!_

"His face frightens me." Simonette spoke softly. She, too, was staring at the man on the distant dock.

Sister Marie Madeleine patted her hand reassuringly and responded. "I was notified just this morning that the lovely Cathedral of Saint Louis will be gaining a new bishop. That must be him." The nun smiled kindly at Simonette. "There is no reason for you to be frightened. It is a blessing to have the good bishop traveling with us to New Orleans."

"Do you know which parish he is from?" Lenobia asked, even though she knew the answer before the nun confirmed her dread.

"Why, yes, Cecile. He is Charles de Beaumont, the Bishop of Evreux. But do you not recognize him? I believe Evreux is quite near your home, is it not?"

Feeling as if she were going to be violently ill, Lenobia said. "Yes, Sister, yes, it is."


	5. Chapter 3: Scene 1, Martin

As soon as Lenobia boarded the _Minerva,_ she pulled the thick hood of her fur-lined cloak over her head. Forcing herself to ignore the distractions of the brightly painted deck and the busting energy of everything from crates of flour, bags of salt, barrels of cured meat and, to the horses being loaded, Lenobia ducked her chin and tried to disappear. _Horses! There are horses coming with us, too?_ She wanted to stare around her and take it all in, but the rowboat had already begun its return trip to the docks, where it would be picking up their fellow traveller, The Bishop of Evreux. _I must get below. I must not let the Bishop see me. Most of all, I must be brave . . . be brave . . ._

"Cecile, are you well?" Simonette was peering up into her hooded face, sounding so concerned that she drew Sister Marie Madeleine's attention.

"Mademoiselle Cecile is-"

"I am feeling a little ill, Sister," Lenobia interrupted, trying to speak softly and not call any more attention to herself.

"Aye! 'Tis the way of it. Some people are sick from the moment they set foot on deck." The man, striding toward them, voice booming, he had a huge barrel chest and a florid, meaty face that contrasted dramatically with his dark blue coat and golden epaulets. "I am sorry to say it, but your reaction bodes ill her how you will fare during the voyage, Mademoiselle. I can tell you think that though I have lost passengers to the sea, I have never lost one to seasickness before." 

"I-I think I will be better if I can get below," Lenobia said quickly, hyperaware that with each moment the Bishop was getting closer and closer to boarding.

"Oh, poor Cecile," Sister Marie Madeleine murmured. Then she added, "Girls thus is our captain, Commodore William Cornwallis. He is a great patriot and will keep us quite safe during this long journey of ours."

"That is very kind of you to say, good Sister," the Commodore motioned at a plainly dressed, young mulatto man who was standing nearby. "Martin, show the ladies to their quarters.

 _"_ _Merci_ _beaucoup,_ Commodore," said Sister Marie madeleine.

"I hope to see you all at dinner this evening." The big man gave Lenobia a little wink. "At least those of you with the stomach to attend, that is! Excuse me, ladies." He strode away, bellowing at a group of his crew members who were struggling awkwardly with a large crate.

"Mademoiselles, Madame, if you would follow me," Martin said.

Lenobia was the first to fall in line behind the broad shouldered form of Martin as he nimbly led them through a door in the rear of the deck and down a rather treacherously narrow stairwell that led to an almost equally narrow hallway branching to the left and right. Martin jerked his chin toward the left and Lenobia caught a glimpse of his strong, young profile. "That was is the crew quarters." As he spoke there was a loud crashing sound and a high-pitched squeal coming from the direction in which his chin had pointed.

"The Crew's quarters?" Lenobia couldn't help asking with a lift of her brows, the familiar sound of an annoyed horse momentarily making her forget to be mute and invisible.

Martin looked down at her. A smile tilted the corners of his lips up and his eyes, which were an unusual light olive green colour, sparkled. Lenobia couldn't tell whether the sparkle was humour, mischief or sarcasm. He said, "Down the deck below the crew's quarters be the cargo and in the cargo there be the pair of Greys, Vincent Rillieux purchased for his carriage.

"Greys, what do you mean?" Simonette asked, but she wasn't peeking down the long hallway-she was peering with open curiosity at Martin.

"Horses," Lenobia said.

"Percherons, a matched set of geldings," Martin corrected. "Giant brutes, not for ladies or gentleman proper," he said, meeting Lenobia's gaze with a frankness that surprised her before he turned to the right and continued to talk as her walked. "This way is your quarters. There be four rooms for you to divide up. The Commodore and any male passengers is above you."

Simonette wrapped her arm through Lenobia's and whispered in a rush, "I have never seen a mulatto before. I wonder if they are all so handsome as this one!"

"Sssh, Simonette!" Lenobia hushed her just as Martin stopped before the first room that opened to the right of the narrow hallway.

"That will be all, thank you Martin," Sister Marie Madeleine had caught up with them and gave Simonette a hard look as she dismissed the mulatto.

"Yes Sister," he said as he bowed to the nun and began back down the hallway.

 _"Excuse_ _moi_ _,_ Martin. Where and when do we dine with the Commodore?" Sister Marie Madeleine asked.

Martin paused in his retreat to answer. "Commodore's table is where you have dinner, at seven o'clock each night. Prompt, Madame, the Commodore, he insists on formal dress. The other meals be brought to you." Though martin's tone had turned gruff, when glance went to Lenobia she thought his expression was more filled with a shy curiosity than mean-spiritedness.

"Will we be the only guests at the Commodore's dinner table?" Lenobia asked.

"Surely he will include the Bishop in his invitation," said Sister Marne Madeleine briskly.

"Oh, _oui_ _,_ the Bishop will attend, he also perform Mass. The Commodore is a proper Catholic, as are the rest of the crew, Madame," Martin assured her before disappearing from sight down the hallway.

This time Lenobia did not have to pretend that she felt ill.


	6. Chapter3:Scene 2, The Letter From Mother

"No, no truly, please go without me. A little bread, cheese and watered wine are all I need," Lenobia assured Sister Marie Madeleine.

"Mademoiselle Cecile would the company of the Commodore and the Bishop not take your mind off your upset stomach?" The nun frowned as she hesitated at the doorway with the other girls, all dressed and eager for their first dinner at the Commodore's table.

"No!" Thinking of what would happen if the Bishop recognized her, Lenobia knew her face had gone pale. She gaged a little and pressed her hand to her mouth as if holding back the sickness. "I cannot even bear the thought of food. I should certainly embarrass myself with sickness if I attempted it.

Sister Marie Madeleine sighed heavily, "Very well, rest for this evening. I will bring you back some bread and cheese."

"Thank you Sister."

"I am quite certain you will be yourself tomorrow," Simonette called before Sister Marie Madeleine closed the door behind her gently.

Lenobia let out a long breath and tossed back the hood of her cloak to revel her silver-blond hair. Not wasting any of her precious time alone, she dragged the large chest that was engraved in gold with _CECILE MARSON DE LA TOUR D'AUVERGNE_ over to the far side of the room near the sleeping pallet she had chosen herself. Lenobia positioned the trunk under one of the round portholes and then she climbed on top of it, pulling the little brass hook that held the glass closed and breathed deeply of the cool, moist air.

The thick trunk made her just tall enough to see out of the window. In awe, Lenobia gazed at the endless expanse of water. It was dusk, but there was still enough light in the enormous sky for the waves to be illuminated. Lenobia didn't think she'd ever seen anything as mesmerizing as the sea at night. Her body swayed gracefully with the movement of the ship. Sick? Absolutely not!

"But I will pretend to be," she whispered aloud to the ocean. Even if I must keep up the pretence for the full eight weeks of this voyage"

Eight weeks! The thought of it was terrible. She had gasped in shock when he always chattering Simonette had said how hard it was to believe they would be on this ship for eight weeks. Sister Marie Madeleine had given me a strange look and Lenobia had quickly followed her gasp with a moan and clutched her stomach.

"I must be more careful, from now on," she told herself. "Of course the real Cecile would know that the voyage would take eight weeks. I must be starter and braver-and most of all I must avoid the Bishop."

She reluctantly closed the little window, stepped down and opened the trunk. As she reached in to begin searching through the expensive silks and laces for a sleeping shift, she found a folded piece of paper lying on top of the glittering mound. The name _Cecile_ was written in her mother's bold script. Lenobia's hands shook only a little when she opened the letter and read:

 ** _My daughter,_**

 ** _You are betrothed to the_** ** _Duc_** ** _of_** ** _Silegne's_** ** _youngest son,_** ** _Thinton_** ** _de_** ** _Silegne_** ** _. He is a large plantation one day's ride north of New Orleans. I do not know if he is kind or handsome, only that he is young, rich and comes from a fine family. I only pray with every sunrise that you find happiness and that your children know how fortunate they are to have such a brave woman as their mother._**

 ** _Your, Mother_**

Lenobia closed her eyes, wiped the tears from her cheeks and clutched her mother's letter. It was a sign that all would be will! She was going to marry a man who lived a day's ride north of where the Bishop would be. Surely a large, rich plantation would have its own chapel. If it didn't Lenobia would make quite certain it soon would. All she and to do was avoid discovery until she left New Orleans.

 _It shouldn't be so difficult,_ she told herself. _For the past two years I have been avoiding the prying eyes of me, in comparison, eight more weeks in not long at all . . ._


	7. Chapter 3: Scene 3, The Horses Hide Out

Much later, when Lenobia allowed herself to remember that fateful voyage, she considered the oddness of time and how eight weeks could pass at such differing speeds.

The first two days had seemed interminable. Sister Marie Madeleine hovered around her, trying to tempt her to eat – which was a torture because Lenobia was absolutely ravenous and wanted to sink her teeth into the biscuits and hot sliced pork that the good nun kept offering her. Instead she nibbled on some hard bread and drank watered wine until her cheeks felt hot and her head was spinning.

Just after dawn of the third day, the ocean, which had been placid, changed utterly and became an angry grey entity that tossed the _Minerva_ to and fro as if she were a twig. The Commodore made grand show of coming to their rooms and assuring them that the squall was comparatively mild and in actuality fortuitous – that it was pushing them toward New Orleans at a much faster rate than was typical for this time of year.

Lenobia was pleased about that, but she thought it even more fortuitous that the rough seas caused more than half of her shipmates – including the poor, unfortunate Bishop – to become violently ill and to keep to their quarters. Lenobia felt bad for being relieved at so much sickness, but it certainly made the next ten days easier for her. By the time the sea had become placid again, Lenobia's pattern of preferring to keep to herself had been well established. Except for occasional bursts of Simonette's irrepressible chattering, the other girls mostly left Lenobia to herself.

At first she'd thought she'd be lonely. Lenobia did miss her mother badly, but it was a surprise to her how much she enjoyed the solitude – the time alone with her thoughts, but that was just the first of her surprises. The truth was, unless her secret is discovered, Lenobia had found happiness and it was due to three things – sunrise, horses and the young man she'd chanced upon because of the other two things.

She'd found the way to the Percherons the same way she'd discovered how peaceful and private it was in the early hours just before and during the rising of the sun – by finding the path least frequented by the rest of the people aboard.

None of the other girls ever left their sleeping chamber before the sun was well into the morning sky. Sister Marie Madeleine was always the first of the women awake. She rose when dawn's light changed from pink to yellow and went immediately to the little shrine she'd created for the Virgin Mary, lit one precious candle and began praying. The nun also came to her altar mid-morning for Marian litanies and to recite the Little Office of the Virgin before she went to bed, instructing the girls to pray with her. In truth, every morning the devout Sister prayed so fervently – eyes closed, counting her rosary beads by touch – that it was a simple thing to slip into or out of the room without disturbing her.

That was how it began – Lenobia's pattern of waking before all the others and roaming silently around the ship, finding pockets of solitude and so much more beauty than she had ever imagined. She'd been going man, stuck in that one room, hiding from the Bishop and pretending to be ill. Early one morning, when all the girls, even Sister Marie Madeleine, were sound asleep, she'd taken a chance and tiptoed from the chamber and into the hallway. The se was rough – the squall just really setting in, but Lenobia had no trouble keeping on her feet. She enjoyed the pitch and roll of the _Minerva._ She also enjoyed the fact that the bad weather was keeping even any of the crew in their quarters.

Listening as hard as she could, Lenobia had moved from shadow to shadow, making her way up to a dark corner of the deck. There she'd stood near the railing and breathed great gulps of fresh air while she stared out at the water, the sky and the vast expanse of emptiness. She'd hadn't been thinking anything – she'd just been feeling the freedom.

Then something amazing happened.

The sky had changed from grey to blush and peach, to primrose and saffron. The crystal waters magnified all those colours and Lenobia had been captivated by the majesty of it. Yes, of course she had often been awake at dawn at the _chateau,_ but she'd always been busy. She'd never had time to sit and watch the colours or the dawn sky and the magical lifting of the sun from a distant horizon.

From that morning on it became part of her own religious ritual and Lenobia was, in her own way, as devout as was Sister Marie Madeleine. Each dawn she would steal above deck, find a spot of shadows, solitude and watch the sky welcome the sun.

As she did, Lenobia gave thanks for the beauty she had been allowed to witness. Holding her mother's rosary beads, she prayed fervently that she be allowed to see another dawn in safety, with her secret undiscovered. She would stay above deck as long as she dared, until the noises of the waking crew drove her back below, where she slipped into her shared room and went back to the charade of being an ill, delicate loner.

It was just after she'd watched her third dawn and she was retracing what had become the familiar path to her room that Lenobia found the horses and then him. She'd heard the men coming up from below just as she was about to enter the stairwell hallway and had been almost certain that one of the voices – the one that was gruffest of them all – had belonged to the Bishop. Her reaction was immediate. Lenobia lifted her skirts and ran as quickly and silently as possible in the opposite direction. She flitted from shadow to shadow, always moving away from the voices. She didn't pause when she found the little arched doorway that led to steep, narrow stairs dropping down and down like a ladder. She simply climbed down until she came to the bottom.

Lenobia smelled them before she saw them. The scents of horse, hay and manure were as familiar as they were comforting. She probably should have paused there only a moment – she was quite certain none of the other girls would have paid so much as an instant's attention to the horses, but Lenobia was not like other girls. She had always loved animals – all types of animals, but especially horses. Their sounds and scents drew her s the moon drew the tide. There was a surprising amount of light filtering from large rectangular openings in the deck above and it was easy for Lenobia to make her way around crates, sacks, bushels and barrels until she was standing before make shift stall. Two huge grey heads hung over the half wall, ears pricked attentively in her direction.

"Oooh! Look at the two of you! You're exquisite!" Lenobia went to them, moving carefully and not making any silly, abrupt motions that might spook them, but she needn't have worried. The pair of Percherons seemed as curious about her as she was about them. She held her hands out to them and both began blowing against her palms. She rubbed their broad foreheads and kissed their soft muzzles, giggling girlishly as they lipped at her hair.

The giggle was what made Lenobia realize the truth – that she was actually feeling a bubble of happiness. That was something she hadn't believed she would ever truly feel again. Oh, she would certainly feel the satisfaction and safety that living the life of a legitimate daughter of a baron would bring her. She hoped that she might feel contentment, if not love for Thinton de Silegne, the man she had been fated to marry in Cecile's place, but happiness? Lenobia hadn't expected to feel happiness.

She smiled as one of the horses lipped the lace on the sleeve of her dress. "Horses and happiness, they go together." She told the gelding.

It was while she was standing between the two Percherons, feeling that unexpected bubble of happiness, that a huge black and white cat jump from the top of a nearby create and landed with a monstrous thud near her feet.

Lenobia and the Percherons were startled. The horses arched their necks and scent the feline wary looks.

"I know," Lenobia said to them. "I agree with you. That is the biggest cat I have ever seen."

As if on cue, the cat flopped over onto its back, curled its head around and blinked innocent green eyes up at Lenobia while rumbling strange, low rrrrow.

Lenobia looked at the geldings, they looked at her. She shrugged and said, _"Oui,_ it seems she wants her stomach scratched." She smiled and reached down.

"I would not do that, you."

Lenobia pulled her hand back and froze. Heart pounding, she felt trapped and guilty as the man stepped from the shadows. Recognizing Martin, the mulatto who had shown them to their quarters just three day before, she breathed small sigh of relief and tried to look less guilty and more lady-like.

"She seems to want her stomach scratched," Lenobia said.

"He," Martin corrected with a wry smile. "Odysseus is using his favourite ruse on you, Mademoiselle." He plucked a long piece of hay from one of the bales of alfalfa and tickled it against the cat's plump stomach. Odysseus promptly closed on the hay, capturing it with his paws and biting it thoroughly before speeding off to disappear among the cargo. "It is his game. He looks harmless to lure you in and then he attacks."

"Is he really mean?"

Martin shrugged his broad shoulders. "I think not mean that one; just mischievous, but what do I know. I am not a learned gentleman or a great lady."

Lenobia almost responded automatically, _'Neither am I!'_ Thankfully, Martin continued. "Mademoiselle, this is no place for a lady. You will soil your clothing and muss your hair." She thought that even though martin was speaking in a respectful, appropriate manner, there was something about his look – his tone – that was dismissive and patronizing and that annoyed her. Not because she was supposed to be above his class. Lenobia cared because she was not one of those rich, pampered, snobbish Mademoiselles who belittled others and knew nothing about hard work. She was not Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne.

Lenobia narrowed her eyes at him. "I like horses." To punctuate her point, she stepped back between the two greys and patted their thick necks. "I also like cats – even mischievous one and I do not mind having my clothing soiled or my hair mussed."

Lenobia saw the surprise in his expressive green eyes, but before he could reply the sound of men's voices drifted down from above.

"I must get back, I cannot get caught" – Lenobia stopped herself before she could blurt out _'by the Bishop,'_ and instead finished hastily with – "Roaming the ship, I should be in my quarters. I-I have not been well."

"I remember," Martin said. "You looked ill as soon as you came aboard. You do not look so bad now, even though the sea is rough today."

"Walking around makes me feel better, but Sister Marie Madeleine does not think it appropriate." Actually, the good Sister hadn't made that exact pronunciation, she hadn't had to. All of the girls seemed content to sit and embroider , gossip or play one of the two precious harpsichords being shipped with them. None of them had shown any interest in exploring the grand ship.

"The Sister – she a strong woman; I think even the Commodore a little afraid of her," he said.

"I know, I know, but well, I just . . . I like seeing the rest of the ship." Lenobia struggled to find the right words that would not betray too much.

Martin nodded. "The other Mademoiselles rarely leave their quarters. Some of us, we think they might be _fille a la casquette,_ the casket girls." He said the phrase in French and then in English, eerily echoing her mother's comment to her the day, she'd left the _chateau._ He cocked his head and studied her, rubbing his chin in exaggerated concentration. "You don't look much like a casket girl, you."

 _"Exactly,_ that is what I am trying to tell you! I am not like the other girls." As male voices drifted closer and closer, Lenobia stroked each of the greys in farewell, then swallowed her fear and turned to face Martin. "Please, Martin will you show me how to get back without going through there." She pointed to the ladder-like stairwell she'd climbed down, "and having to cross the entire deck?"

 _"Oui,"_ he said only a slight hesitant.

"Will you promise to tell on one that I have been here? Please?"

 _"Oui,"_ he repeated, _"Allons-y."_

Martin led her quickly in a twisting path through the mountains of cargo all the way across the underbelly of the ship until they came to a larger, more accessible entrance. "Up there," Martin explained. "Keep going up, it will lead you to the hallway of your quarters."

"It goes past the crew's quarters, too does it not?"

"It does, if you see men you raise your chin, thus." Martin lifted his chin. "Then you give to them the look you gave to me when you tell me you like horses and cats of mischief. They will not bother you."

"Thank you, Martin! Thank you so much," Lenobia said.

"Do you know why I help you?"

Martin's question had her turning back to look at him questioningly. "I suppose it is because you must be a man with a kind heart."

Martin shook his head. "No, it is because you were brave enough to ask if of me."

The giggle that escaped Lenobia's mouth was semihysterical. "Brave? No, I am frightened of everything!"

He smiled, "Except horses and cats."

She smiled in return, feeling her cheeks get warm and her stomach make a fluttery feeling because his smile made him even more handsome. "Except horses and cats; thank you, again, Martin."

She was almost through the doorway when he added, "I feed the horses; every morning just after dawn."

Cheeks still warm, Lenobia glanced back at him. "Perhaps I will see you again."

His green eyes sparkled and he tipped an imaginary hat to her, "Perhaps, _Cherie,_ perhaps."


	8. Chapter 4: Scene 1, Martin

For the next four weeks Lenobia existed in an odd state that was somewhere between peace, anxiety, happiness and despair. Time played with her. The hours that she sat in her quarters waiting for dusk, then night and then the gloaming of predawn seemed to take an eternity to pass. As soon as the ship slept and she was able to slip out of the confines of her self-imposed prison, the next few hours rushed past, leaving her breathless and yearning for more.

She would prowl the ship, soaking in freedom with the salt air, watching the sun burst gloriously from the watery horizon and then she would slip down to the joy that awaited her below deck.

For a little while she convinced herself it was only the greys that made her so happy – so eager to rush to the cargo hold and so sad when the time passed too quickly; the ship began to wake and she had to return to her quarters.

It couldn't have anything to do with Martin's broad shoulders, his smile or the sparkle in his olive-coloured eyes and the way he teased her, made her laugh.

"Those greys don't be eating that bred you bring them. No one be eating that stuff," he'd said, chuckling that first morning she'd returned.

She'd frowned. "They will eat it because it is so salty. Horses like salty things." She'd held the hard bread out, one piece in each palm and offered it to the Percherons. They'd sniffed it and then, with surprising delicacy for such big animals, taken the bread, chewed with a lot of head bobbing and expressions of surprise that had made Lenobia and Martin laugh together.

"You were right, _Cher!"_ Martin said, "How you know about what horses like to eat, a lady like you?"

"My father has many horses. I told you I like them, so I spent time in the stables," she said evasively.

"Your _pere,_ he not mind that his daughter is in the stables?"

"My father did not pay attention to where I was," she said. Thinking that, at least that was the truth. "What about you? Where did you learn about horses?" Lenobia changed the focus of their conversation.

"The Rillieux plantation just outside New Orleans."

"Yes, that was the name of the man you said was shipping the greys. So, Monsieur Rillieux must trust you quite a lot if he sent you to travel all the way to and from New Orleans and France with his horses.

"He should, Monsieur Rillieux is my father."

"Your father? I thought –"Her words trailed off and Lenobia felt her cheeks getting hot.

"You thought because my skin is brown my _pere_ could not be white?"

Lenobia thought he seemed more amused than offended, so she took a chance and said what was on her mind. "No, I know one of your parents had to be white. The Commodore called you a mulatto and your skin is not really brown. It is lighter than that; it is more like cream with a bit of chocolate mixed with it." To herself Lenobia thought; _His skin is more beautiful than plain white could ever possibly be,_ and felt her cheeks flame again.

"Quadroon, _Cherie,"_ Martin said, smiling into her eyes.

"Quadroon?"

 _"Oui, that_ is me. My maman, she was Rillieux's first _placage._ She was a mulatto also."

 _"Placage?_ I do not understand."

Rich white men take women of colour in the _marriages de la main gauche."_

"Left-handed marriages?"

"It means not real by law, but real for New Orleans. That was my maman, only she died not long after my birth. Rillieux keep me on and have his slaves raise me."

"Are you a slave?"

"No, I am _Creole_ , free man of colour. I work for Rillieux." When Lenobia just stared at him, trying to take in everything she was learning, he smiled and said, "Since you here, you want to help me groom the greys; or you scurry back to your room like a proper lady."

Lenobia lifted her chin, "Since I am here – I stay and I will help you."

The next hour sped by quickly. The Percherons were a lot of horse to groom and Lenobia had been busy; working with Martin and talking about nothing personal than horses, arguing the pros and cons of tail docking and even though the whole time she could not stop thinking about _placage_ and _marriages de la main gauche._

It was only as Lenobia began to leave that she was able to have the courage to ask Martin the question that had been circling around her mind. "The _placage_ – do the women get to choose or do they have to be with whomever wants them?"

"There are many kinds of people, _Cherie_ and many kinds of arrangements, but from what I see it is more about choice and love than not."

"Good," Lenobia said. "I am glad for them."

"You had no choice, did you, _Cher?"_ Martin asked, meeting her gaze.

"I did what my mother told me to do," she said truthfully and then she left the cargo hold, carrying the scent of horses and the memory of olive eyes with her throughout the tedium of that long day.


	9. Chap4:Scene2,Lenobia Confession

What began as an accident became a habit and something she rationalized as being just for the horses became her joy – what she needed to get through the never-ending voyage. Lenobia couldn't wait to see Martin – to hear what he would say next – to talk with him about her dreams and even her fears. She didn't men to confide in him – to like him – to care for him at all, but she did. How could she not? Martin was funny, smart and beautiful – so very beautiful.

"You getting skinny, you," he said to her on the fifth day.

"What are you talking about? I have always been petite." Lenobia paused as she combed through the tangled mane of one of the geldings and peeked around his arched neck at Martin.

"I am not skinny," she said firmly.

"Skinny, _cher._ That is what you are," he'd ducked under the gelding's neck and was suddenly there, beside her, close, warm and solid. He took her wrist gently in his hand and circled it easily with his forefinger and thumb.

"See there, you all bone."

His touch shocked her; he was tall and muscular, but gentle. His movements were slow, steady and, almost, hypnotic. It was as if his every motion was made deliberately, so as not to frighten her. Unexpectedly he reminded her of a Percheron. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, over her pulse point.

"I have to pretend not to want to eat," she heard herself admitting.

"Why, _cher?"_

"It is better for me if I stay away from everyone and being sick gives me a reason to keep to myself."

"Everyone, why don't you stay away from me?" he asked boldly.

Even though her heart felt as if it would pound from her chest, she pulled her wrist from his gentle grip and gave him a stern look.

"I come for the horses and not for you."

"Ah, _les chevaux,_ of course." He stroked the neck of the gelding, but he didn't smile as she expected, nor did he joke back with her. Instead he just looked at her, as if he could see through her tough façade to the softness of her heart. He said no more and instead handed her one of the thick curry brushes from a nearby bucket.

"He likes this one best."

"Thank you," she said and began working her way across the broad body of the gelding with the brush.

There was only a small, uncomfortable silence and then Martin's voice carried from the other side of the gelding he was tending.

"So, _Cherie,_ what story I tell you today? The one about how anything you plant in the black dirt of New France grows taller than these _petite chevaux,_ or about the pearls in the _tignons_ of the beautiful _placage_ and how the women they stroll through the square?"

"Tell me about the women – about the _placage."_ Lenobia said and then she listened eagerly as Martin painted pictures in her imagination of gorgeous woman who were free enough to choose whom they would love, though not free enough to make their unions legal.

Then next morning when she rushed into the cargo hold she found him already grooming the horses. A hunk of cheese and fragrant hot pork between two thick slices of fresh bread, sat on a clean cloth near the barrels of oats. Without glancing at her, Martin said, "Eat, _Cherie._ You don't pretend around me."

Perhaps that was the morning it changed for Lenobia and she began to think of it as seeing Martin at dawn rather than visiting the horses at dawn. More precisely, perhaps that was when she began to admit the change to himself.

Once it changed for her, Lenobia began searching for signs from Martin that she was more than just his friend – more than _ma Cherie,_ the girl he brought food to and who pestered him for stories of New France. All she found in his gaze was familiar kindness and all she heard in his voice was patience and humour. Once or twice she thought she caught a glimmer of more, especially when they laughed together and the olive green in his eyes seemed to sparkle with flecks of golden brown, but he always turned away if she met his gaze for too long and he always had a humorous story ready if the silences between them became too great.

Just before the small measure of peace and happiness she'd found shattered and her world exploded, Lenobia finally found the courage to ask the question that would not allow her to sleep. It was as she was brushing off her skirts and whispering to the nearest gelding an affectionate _'a bientot'_ that she took a deep breath and said, "Martin, I need to ask you a question."

"What is it, _Cherie?"_ He responded absently while he gathered up the curry brushes and linen rags they'd used to wipe down the geldings.

"You tell me stories of the women like your maman – women of colour who become _placage_ and live as wives to white men. What of men of colour being with a white woman? What of male _placage?"_

From outside the stall his gaze went to hers and she saw surprise, then amusement and she know he was going to humiliate her by laughing. Then he truly looked into her eyes and his teasing response turned sad. He shook his head slowly from side to side, his voice sounded weary and his broad shoulders seemed to slump.

"No, _Cherie,_ there are no male _placage._ Only way a man of colour can be with a white woman is if he leave New France and pass as white."

"Pass as white? You mean to pretend you are white?" She felt breathless at her boldness.

 _"Oui,_ but not me, _Cherie,"_ Martin said as he held out his arm. It was long, muscular and, in the post-dawn light filtering from the deck above, it looked more bronze than brown.

"This skin too brown to pass and I think I am not one for being any more, or less, then who I am. Nah, _Cherie,_ I be happy in my own skin." Their gazes held and Lenobia tried to tell him with a look, all that she was beginning to wish – all that she was beginning to want.

"I see a storm in those grey eyes of yours, _Cherie,_ you leave that storm be. You strong, but not strong enough to change the way the world think – the way the world believe."

Lenobia didn't reply until she'd opened the little half door and exited the Percherons stall. She went to Martin, smoothen her skirt and then looked up into his eyes.

"Even the New World?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

" _Cherie,_ we do not speak of it, but I know you one of the _fille a la casquette._ You promised to a great man, that true, _Cherie?"_

"It is true; his name is Thinton de Silegne. He is a name with not face, no body and not heart." She said.

"He a name with land though, _Cherie._ I know his name and his land, his plantation, the Houmas, is like paradise."

"It is not paradise I want, Martin. It is only y –"

"No!" He stopped her pressing a finger against her lips.

"You cannot speak it, you. My heart is strong, but not strong enough to fight your words."

Lenobia took his hand from her lips and held it in hers. It felt warm and rough, like there was nothing he couldn't defeat or defend with that hand.

"I only ask that your heart listens."

"Oh, _Cherie,_ my heart has already heard your words. Your heart spoke them to me, but that as far as they can go – only this silent talk between us."

"I . . . I want more," she said.

" _Oui, mon petite chou,_ I want more, too. It cannot be, Cecile, we cannot be.

That was the first time he'd called her by that name since she'd been coming to him at dawn and the sound of it took her aback. So much so that she dropped his hand and stepped away from him.

 _He thinks I am Cecile, the legitimate daughter of a baron. Do I tell him, would it matter?_

"I – I should go," she stumbled over the words, completely overwhelmed by the conflicting layers of her life. Lenobia started toward the large cargo deck exit, behind her Martin spoke.

"You not come back here again, _Cherie."_

"Are you saying you do not want me to come back?" Lenobia said looking over her shoulder at him.

"I could not speak that lie to you," he said.

Lenobia breathed a long trembling sigh of relief before saying. "Then if you are asking me, my answer is yes. I will come back again, tomorrow at dawn. Nothing has changed."

She continued walking out and heard the echo of his voice following her, saying, "Everything has changed, _ma Cherie . . ."_

Lenobia's thoughts were in tumult. Had everything changed between them?

 _Yes, Martin said his heart heard my words. What did that mean?_

She climbed the narrow stairwell and entered the hallway that ran from the cargo entrance past the crew's quarters, the deck access way, then ended at the female passengers quarters. She hurried past the crew doorway; it was later than when she usually returned and she heard hardly any sounds of the crew members rustling about within, getting ready to begin the day. She should have known then that she needed to be more careful. She should have stopped and listened, but all Lenobia could hear was the sound of her thoughts answering her own question.

 _What did it mean that Martin said his heart heard my words? It meant that he knows I love him. I love him, I love Martin._

It was as she admitted that to herself that the Bishop, his purple robes swirling around him, moved into the hallway not two steps behind her.

 _"Bonjour, mademoiselle,"_ he said.

Had Lenobia been less distracted, she would have immediately ducked her head, curtseyed and scampered back to the safety of her quarters. Instead she made a terrible mistake, Lenobia looked up at him and their gazes met.

"Ah, it is the little mademoiselle who has been so ill all voyage, but I thought you were the Baron d'Auvergne's . . ." His voice trailed off and she saw confusion in his dark eyes. He even tilted his head and furrowed his brow as he studied her. Then his eyes widened in recognition and then understanding.

 _"Bonjour, Father."_ She spoke quickly, ducked her head, curtseyed and tried to retreat, but it was already too late. The Bishop's hand snaked out and grabbed her arm.

"I know your pretty face and it is not that of Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne, daughter of the Baron d'Auvergne."

"No, please let me go, Father." Lenobia tried to pull away from him, but his hot grip felt stronger than iron.

"I know your pretty, pretty face," he repeated. His surprise turned to a cruel smile.

"You are a daughter of the Baron, but you are his _fille de bas._ Everyone near the Chateau de Navarre knows of the succulent little fruit that dropped from the wrong side of the Baron's tree."

His bastard daughter . . . succulent little fruit . . . wrong side . . . The words battered her, filling her with dread. Lenobia shook her head back and forth, back and forth.

"No, I must return to my quarters. Sister Marie Madeleine will be missing me."

"Yes, indeed I have been."

Lenobia and the Bishop were startled by the sound of Sister Marie Madeleine's commanding voice – the Bishop enough that Lenobia was able to pull loose from him and stumble down the hall to the nun.

"What is this about, Father?" Sister Marie Madeleine asked. Before the Bishop could answer her, the nun touched Lenobia's cheek and said, "Cecile, why are you trembling so? Have you been ill again?"

"You call her Cecile? Are you in on this unholy masquerade?" The Bishop seemed to fill the hallway as he loomed over the two women.

Clearly not intimidated, Sister Marie Madeleine stepped forward, putting herself between Lenobia and the priest.

"I have no idea of what you speak; Father, but you are frightening this child."

"This child is a bastard impostor!" The Bishop roared.

"Father, have you gone quite mad?" The nun said, drawing back as if he'd struck her.

"Do you know? Is that why you have kept her hidden for the entire voyage?" The Bishop continued to rage. Lenobia could hear the sounds of doors opening behind her and she knew the other girls were coming into the hallway. She could not look at them – she would not look at them.

"This is a travesty! I will excommunicate both of you, the Holy Father himself will hear of this!?"

Lenobia could see the curious looks the crewmen were giving them as the Bishop's tirade drew more and more attention. The, far down the hallway behind the Bishop, Lenobia caught sight of Martin's startled face and saw that he was coming toward her.

It was terrible enough that Sister Marie Madeleine was standing there, protecting and believing in her. She couldn't bear it if Martin were somehow pulled into the mess she had made of her life as well.

"No! I did this on my own, no one knew, no one, especially not the good Sister." Lenobia cried, moving around Sister Marie Madeline.

"What is it the child has done?" The commodore asked as he stepped into the hallway, frowning from the Bishop to Lenobia.

The Bishop opened his mouth to shout her sin, but before he could speak, Lenobia confessed.

"I am not Cecile Marson de La Tour d'Auvergne. Cecile died the morning the carriage came to take her to Le Havre. I am another daughter of the Baron d'Auvergne – his bastard daughter. I took Cecile's place without anyone at the Chateau knowing because I wanted a better life for myself." Lenobia met the nun's gaze steadily.

"I am sorry I lied to you, Sister, please forgive me."


	10. Chap5:Scene1TheSister Protection Promise

"No gentlemen, I must insist you leave the girl to me. She is a _fille a la casquette_ and as such is under the protection of the Ursuline nuns." Sister Marie Madeleine positioned herself in the doorway to their room, holding the door half closed behind her. She had told Lenobia to go immediately to her pallet and then had squared off against the Bishop and the Commodore, who hovered in the hallway. The Bishop was still blustering and red face, while the Commodore didn't seem to know how to look – he appeared to vacillate between anger and humour. As the nun spoke, the military man shrugged and said, "Yes, well, she is your charge, Sister."

"She is a bastard and an impostor!" The Bishop shouted.

"Bastard she is – impostor she is no more," the nun said firmly.

"She has admitted her sin and asked for forgiveness. It is now our job as good Catholics to forgive and help the child find her true path in life."

"You could not possibly believe I would allow you to marry that little bastard to a nobleman!" The Bishop shouted again, seeming to become more enraged.

"You could not possibly believe I would involve myself in deceit and break my vow of honesty," the nun countered.

Lenobia though she could feel the heat of the Bishop's anger all the way across the room.

"Then what are you going to do with her?" He asked.

"I am going to complete my charge and be certain she arrives safe and chaste in New Orleans. From there it will be up to the Ursuline Council and, of course, the child herself as to her future."

"That sounds reasonable," said the Commodore. "Come, Charles, let us leave the woman to woman's dealings. I have a case of excellent port that we have not yet opened. Let us sample it and be sure it has survived the voyage thus far." Giving the Sister a dismissive nod, he clapped the Bishop on his shoulder before walking away.

The purple-robed man didn't immediately follow the Commodore. Instead he looked past Sister Marie Madeleine to where Lenobia sat, arms hugging herself, on her pallet.

"God's holy fire burns out liars," he said.

"I think God's holy fire does not burn out children though. Good day to you, Father," Sister Marie Madeleine said and then she closed the door in the priest's face.

The room was so quiet Lenobia could hear Simonette's excited little breaths.

"I am sorry," Lenobia said as she met Sister Marie Madeleine's gaze.

The nun raised her hand. "First, let us begin with your name, your real name."

"It is Lenobia Whitehall that is my real name." For a moment the rush of relief at being able to reclaim her name overshadowed her fear, shame and she was able to draw a deep, fortifying breath.

"How could you do it? Pretend to be a poor, dead girl?" Simonette said. She was staring at Lenobia with huge eyes as if she were an unusual and frightening species of creature newly discovered.

Lenobia glanced at the nun. The Sister nodded, saying, "They will all want to know, answer now and be through with it."

"I did not so much _pretend_ to be Cecile, but rather I simply kept quiet." Lenobia looked at Simonette, dressed in her silks trimmed in sable, pearls and garnets twinkling around her slim, white neck.

"You do not know what it is to have nothing – no protection – to have no future. I did not want to be Cecile; I just wanted to be safe and happy."

"You are a bastard," said Aveline be Lafayette, the beautiful blonde and the youngest daughter of the Marquis de Lafayette. "You do not deserve the life of a legitimate daughter."

"How could you believe such nonsense? Why should an accident of birth decide the worth of a person?" Lenobia said.

"God decides our worth," said Sister Marie Madeleine.

"Last time I checked, you were not God, mademoiselle," Lenobia said to the young de Lafayette as she finished.

Aveline gasped. "This daughter of a whore will not speak to me like that!"

"My mother is not a whore! She is a woman who was too beautiful and too trusting!" Lenobia shouted at Aveline.

"Of course you would say that, but we already know you are a liar." Aveline de Lafayette picked up her skirts and began to brush past Lenobia, saying, "Sister, I will not share a room with a _fille de bas."_

"Enough!" The sharpness of the nun's voice had even the arrogant de Lafayette pausing.

"Aveline, at the Ursuline convent we educate woman. We make no distinction between class or race in doing so. What is important is that we treat everyone with honesty and respect. Lenobia has given us honesty and we will return that with respect." The nun shifted her gaze to Lenobia.

"I can listen to the confession of your sin, but I cannot absolve you of that sin. For that you need a priest."

"I will not confess to the Bishop." Lenobia said, shuddering.

Marie Madeleine's expression softened.

"Begin by confessing to God, child. Then our good Father Pierre at the convent will hear your confession when we arrive." Her gaze moved from Lenobia to each of the other girls in the room.

"Father Pierre would hear any of your confessions because we are each imperfect and in need of absolution." She turned back to Lenobia. "Child, would you join me on deck, please?"

Lenobia nodded silently and followed the Sister above. They walked the short way up to the aft part of the ship, stood beside the black railing and ornately carved cherubic figures that decorated the rear of the _Minerva._ They stood without speaking for a few moments, each woman looking out to sea and keeping to her own thoughts. Lenobia know being discovered as an imposter would change her life, probably for the worse, but she couldn't help feeling a small thrill of release – of freedom from the lie that had been haunting her.

"I hated the lie," she herd herself speak her thought loud.

"I am glad to hear you say it, you do not seem a deceitful girl to me." Marie Madeleine moved her gaze to Lenobia.

"Tell me truly, did no one else know of your ruse?"

Lenobia did not expect the question and she looked away, not able to say the truth and not willing to tell another lie.

"Ah, I see. You're maman, she knew," Marie Madeleine said, not unkindly.

"No matter, what is done cannot be undone. I will not ask you about it again."

"Thank you, Sister," Lenobia said quietly.

The nun paused and then with a sharper tone continued. "You should have come to me when you first saw the Bishop instead of pretending illness."

"I did not know what you would do," Lenobia said honestly.

"I am not quite certain myself, but I do know I would have done everything in my power to avert an ugly confrontation with the Bishop such as the one we had today." The nun's gaze was sharp and clear. "What is it that is between the two of you?"

"It's nothing on my part!" Lenobia said quickly, then sighed and added, "Some time ago, my maman, who is devout, said that we would no longer go to Mass and instead she kept me home. That did not keep the Bishop from coming to the chateau – it did not keep his eyes from searching me out."

"Did the Bishop take your maidenhood?"

"No! He did not touch me, I am still a maid."

Marie Madeleine crossed herself. "Thank the Blessed Mother for that." The nun exhaled a long breath.

"The Bishop is a worriment to me. He is not the type of man I would want on the Seat of Saint Louis, but, God's ways are sometimes difficult for us to understand. The voyage will be over in a few weeks and once we are in New Orleans the Bishop will have many duties to keep him occupied and not thinking of you. So, it is only for a few weeks that we must keep you from the Bishop's eyes."

"What do you mean ' _we'?"_

Marie Madeleine's brows rose. "Ursuline nuns are servants of the Holy Mother of us all and She would not want me to stand idly by while one of Her daughters is abused – not even by a Bishop." She brushed away Lenobia's thanks.

"You will be expected at dinner now that you have been found out. That cannot be voided without setting you up for more ridicule and disdain."

"Ridicule and disdain are less offensive than the Bishop's attention," Lenobia said.

"No, they make you more vulnerable to him. You will dine with us, just call notice to yourself. Even he cannot do anything on front of a crowd, other than that, even though I am quite sure you re weary of pretending illness and remaining in your quarters, you must stay out of sight."

Lenobia cleared her throat, lifted her chin and took the plunge. "Sister, for several weeks I have been leaving our quarters before dawn and returning before most of the ship awakens."

"Yes, child, I know." The nun said while smiling.

"Oh, I thought you were praying."

"Lenobia, I believe you will discover many of my good sisters and I am able to think and pray at the same time. I do appreciate you honesty, though, where is it you go?"

"Up here, well, actually, over there." Lenobia pointed to a shadowy part of the deck where the lifeboats were stored.

"I watch the sunrise, walk around a little and then I go down to the cargo hold."

Marie Madeleine blinked in surprise. "The cargo hold, whatever for?"

"Horses," Lenobia said.

 _I am telling the truth, the horses drew me there._ She rationalized.

"A matched pair of Percherons, I like horses very much and I am good with them. May I continue visiting them?"

"Do you ever see the Bishop on your dawn outings?"

No, this was the first morning and that is only because I stayed out too long after dawn."

The nun shrugged.

"As long as you are careful, I see no reason to trap you in your quarters any more than I absolutely must, but do be careful, child."

"I will, _merci beaucoup,_ Sister." Impulsively, Lenobia threw her arms around the nun and hugged her. After only a moment strong, motherly arms encircled her in return and the nun patted her shoulder.

"Do not worry, child," Sister Marie Madeleine murmured consolingly.

"There is a great shortage of good Catholic girls in New Orleans. We will find you a husband, do not fear.

Trying not to think of Martin, Lenobia whispered, "I would rather you find me a way to earn my living."

The nun was still chuckling as they made their way back to the women's quarters. 


	11. Chapter 5: Scene 2, Charles Overheard

In the Commodore's private sitting room, directly below where Lenobia and Marie Madeleine had so recently been speaking, Bishop Charles de Beaumont stood by the open window silent as death and still as a statue. When the Commodore returned from the galley with two dusty bottles of port under his beefy arms, Charles put on a show of being interested in the year and vineyard.

He pretended to enjoy the rich wine, when instead he drank deeply and without tasting it, needing to douse the flame of rage that burned so brightly within him while bits and pieces of the conversation he'd overheard boiled through his mind.

 _"_ _What is it that is between the two of you? Did the Bishop take your maidenhood? Ridicule and disdain are less offensive than the Bishop's attention, but do be careful, child . . ."_

The Commodore blustered on and on about tides, battle strategies and other such banal subjects and Charles's anger, dampened by wine, simmered slowly and carefully, cooking fully in the juices of hatred, lust and fire – always fire.


	12. Chapter 5: Scene 3, The Evening Meal

The evening meal would have been a disaster had it not been for Sister Marie Madeleine. Simonette was the only girl who would speak to Lenobia and she did so in awkward starts and stops – as if the fifteen-year-old kept forgetting she wasn't supposed to like Lenobia anymore.

Lenobia concentrated on her food. She thought it was going to be like heaven to be able to eat a full meal, but the Bishop's hot gaze made her feel so sick and scared that she ended up pushing most of the delicious sea bass and potatoes around her plate.

Sister Marie Madeleine made everything work, though. She kept the Commodore engaged in a discussion about the ethics of war that included the Bishop and his ecclesiastical opinions. He couldn't ignore the nun – not when she was showing such obvious interest in the Bishop's opinion. In much less time than Lenobia would have imagined, the Sister was asking to be excused.

"So soon Madame? I was enjoying our conversation very much!" The Commodore blinked blearily at her, face florid from the port.

"Do forgive me, good Commodore, but I wish to go while there is still some light left in the evening sky. The Mademoiselles and I should very much like to take a few turns about the deck." Sister Marie Madeleine replied.

The Mademoiselles, obviously shocked by the nun's proposal, stared at her in varying degrees of surprise and horror.

"Walk, about the deck? Why would you wish to do that, Sister?" The Bishop asked in a sharp voice.

The nun smiled placidly at the Bishop.

 _"_ _Oui,_ I think we have too long been cooped in our rooms." The nun said smiling placidly at the Bishop.

"Have you not explained many times about the healthful benefits of the sea air? Look at you, monsieur, such a big and strong man. We would do well to emulate your habits." She said shifting her attention to the Commodore.

"Ah, indeed, indeed." The Commodore's already massive chest swelled even fuller.

"Excellent! Then with your permission, I am going to recommend the girls and I take frequent walks around the ship at varying times of the day. We must all be mindful of our health and now that the last of the seasickness has dissolved, there is nothing to keep us to our quarters." Marie Madeleine said the last with a quick, knowing glance at Lenobia, followed by an apologetic look to the Commodore, as if including him in her chagrin at the girl's behaviour. Lenobia thought Sister Marie Madeleine was absolutely brilliant.

"Very good, Madame, tip-top idea, really tip-top! Do you not think so, Charles?" The Commodore said, turning his attention the Bishop.

"I think the good Sister is a very wise woman." Came the Bishop's sly response.

"It is kind of you to say so, Father. Do not let us startle you, as from here out you will never know where any of us could be!" Marie Madeleine said.

"I will remember, I will remember." Suddenly the Bishop's stern expression shifted and he blinked as if in surprise.

"Sister, I just had a thought, that I am quite sure was brought on by your ambitious announcement about taking over the ship."

"Father, I did not mean –"

The Bishop waved away her protestations.

"Oh, I know you mean no harm, Sister. As I was saying, my thought was that it would be quite nice if you moved your shrine to the Holy Mother on to the deck. Perhaps just above us, in the aft promenade that is nicely sheltered. Perhaps, even the crew would like to join in your daily devotions." He bowed to the Commodore and added, "As time and their duties would allow, of course."

"Of course – of course," parroted the Commodore.

"Well, certainly I could do that, as long as the weather remains clear." Sister Marie Madeleine said.

"Thank you, Sister. Consider it a personal favour to me."

"Very well, then. I feel we have accomplished so much tonight." The nun said enthusiastically.

 _"_ _Au revoir, monsieure. Allons-y, Mademoiselles,"_ She concludes and then herded her group from the room.

Lenobia felt the Bishop's gaze until the door closed, blocking his view of her.

"Well, then, shall we walk a little?" Without waiting for a response, Marie Madeleine strode purposefully to the short stairwell that led to the deck, where she breathed deeply and encouraged the girls to "Walk about – stretch your young legs."

As Lenobia passed the nun, she asked softly, "What could he possibly want with the Holy Mother?"

"I have no idea, but it certainly cannot hurt the Blessed Virgin to take a turn above deck." She paused, smiled at Lenobia and added, "Just as it will not hurt the rest of us."

"For what you did tonight, Sister, _merci beaucoup._ "

"You are quite welcome, Lenobia."

 **A.N/ I am so sorry about not updating, I had pretty much all my family over for Christmas and then we went to go visit my 25 year old cousin who lives in Spain. The whole time I have been writing chapters, but I couldn't upload them because my cousin doesn't have internet so I couldn't upload this until now when I just got home. So be expecting another chapter very shortly.**

 **So until next time.**


	13. Chap5:Scene 4,The Bishop's Declaration

The Bishop made his excuses and left the Commodore to his port. He retired to his small bedchamber, sat at the single desk and lit on long, thin candlestick. As his fingers caressed the flame, he thought about the bastard girl.

At first he had been enraged and shocked by her deception, but then as he watched her, his rage and surprise coalesced to form a much deeper emotion.

Charles had forgotten the girl's beauty. Though he many weeks of forced celibacy aboard this accrued ship could have something to do with her effect upon him.

"No, it is more than my lack of a bed mate that makes her desirable." He spoke to the flame.

She was even lovelier than he'd remembered, though she had lost weight. That was a shame, but easily remedied, he liked her softer, rounder, more succulent. He would make sure she ate – whether she wanted to or not.

"No, there is _more_ to it." He said, it was those eyes and that hair. The eyes smouldered like smoke. He could see that they called to him, even though she was trying to deny their pull.

The hair was silver, like metal that had been tested, hardened by fire and then pounded into something more than it had once been.

"She is not a true _fille a la casquette._ She will never be the bride of a French gentleman. She is, in fact, fortunate to have caught my attention. Being my mistress it more, much more than she has to hope for from her future."

 _"_ _Ridicule and disdain are less offensive than the Bishop's attention."_

The memory of her words came to him, but he did not allow himself to become angry.

"She will take convincing. No matter, I like it better if they have some spirit."

His fingers passed through the flame, over and over, absorbing heat, but not burning.

It would be good to make the girl his mistress before they reached New Orleans. Then those pompous Ursulines would have nothing about which to squawk. A virgin girl they might care about – a deflowered bastard who had become the mistress of a Bishop would be out of their care and beyond their reach.

First he must make her his own and in order to do that he needed to silence that Virgin-be-damned nun.

His free hand fisted around the ruby cross that hung in the middle of his chest and the flame flickered wildly.

It was only the nun's protection that was keeping the bastard from being his plaything for the rest of the journey and beyond – only the nun who could draw down the wrath of the church upon him. The other girls were inconsequential. They would not consider standing against him, much less speak against him to any authority.

The Commodore cared for nothing except a smooth voyage and his wine. As long as Charles did not rape her in front of the man, he would probably show only a mild interest, though possibly he might want to use the girl himself.

The Bishop's hand, the one that had been stroking the flame, closed in a fist. He did not share his possessions.

"Yes, I will have to rid myself of the nun." Charles smiled and relaxed his hand, allowing it to ply through the flame again.

"I have already taken steps to hasten her untimely end. It is such a shame that the habit she wears is so voluminous and highly flammable. I can sense a terrible accident might befall her . . ."


End file.
